Tea in a Stormcup

I am this close to midnight
dropping hints like acid
hurling rain over high walls
trying to cross my t’s with wishes
hoping you’ll dot my i.

I feel some semblance of poison,
as if there’s tea in my stormcup.

Like some deep ocean critter
washed in from the backwater
my heart is crawling through your comfort zones
under fire from artillery and frantic —
“a fighting cock caged for the first time.”

I feel petty
composing poetry for lack of sex
mistaken for intimacy.

I guess, I just think it’s too early
to be reaching for the cookie jar;
“Yeah, sure” doesn’t ring quite like “I want you.”

But, of course, I am a fool
playing jester in the dim light
and the feeling passes.

The storm has finished brewing.
Here, try it.